the house of wolves you built
by osborns
Summary: each pore of his skin is a gunshot wound. / for susanna


**Dedication: **For Susanna (aphorisms) because it's her birthday but this is more than a week late so I'm sorry and I only just now finished this. I'm sorry that this fic is just kind of everywhere. I started it off with an outline but by the last section I just don't know, aha.

Also level two of the Coppertone War's forum's Twelve Days of Christmas Challenge, c:

**Disclaimer: **Unfortunately, I don't own Supernatural.

* * *

**the house of wolves you built  
**

.

.

"Dean."

He doesn't look up.

"Dean, won't you play with me?"

Sam's voice seems to take up the whole room, so to writhe away from its thickness, Dean relents and glances up towards him. The younger sibling is freshly six, his wide doe eyes boring into his brothers, and part of Dean wants to reach up and touch the delicate, youthful skin of Sam's cheek; the two brothers are insignificant compared to the rest of the world, which didn't even include the murderous souls that Dean had been taught to kill ruthlessly if needed. Seeing a boy who didn't know of horror like that was a refreshing reassurance.

Taking his time to reply, the older brother drops his gaze again, obviously, as usual, not in the mood to "play"—_h__e's ten years old, playing pretend is stupid, anyway_—and Sam shuffles away towards his room to stuff his paperback Dr. Seuss book out from under the pillow and scan the pages, young eyes filled to the brim with curiosity.

Dean never understood what his brother ever saw in reading, despite Sam's insists that imaginary worlds were more intriguing. They weren't real and they only made him feel like other universes had it much better than them; besides, the only few books he had ever read were children's books, in which there was always a happy ending.

No ending that Dean had ever seen could be described as happy.

Because even when he and his father managed to save the victim, something still lost its life and memories and even a bit of happiness: the demon. His dad always told him that _"All monsters are to be killed. You don't spare them," _but Dean thinks that John sometimes forgets that the monster has thoughts too.

He sits curled solemnly on the couch for now, rocking back and forth in the rhythm of a sad song, waiting for his dad to return from his latest hunt although he knows in the pit of his stomach that it will be at least another week. Sam shuffles into the room and smiles faintly.

"Dean, will you please—"

And Dean bursts to a stand and pounds the air towards Sam, yelling angry words that aren't coming out of his mouth—it's someone else's, it has to be—and he goes and lies in his bed for a while. He doesn't cry. A good hunter doesn't cry.

.

He's eleven years and nine months when he first has the chance to celebrate Halloween, this time consisting of something other than splitting a fun-size M&M package with Sam. The Winchesters have their own house now, a two story terrace, oatmeal colored, and the wood peeling in slivers at the edges. Dean likes it. They've already been there for three months, and he thinks that's some kind of record.

Scampering into he and his sibling's room, Dean yanks the pillowcases off both of their pillows to hold the candy, handing one to Sam and keeping the other for himself once returning downstairs. He can't help but smile at his younger brother's excitement—Sam had spent hours on his carefully constructed costume yesterday: a gold belt and black billowing cape, bodysuit, and boots, complete with a glued together felt Batman mask. Dean tightens his string Jigsaw mask around the back of his hair and buries his hands deeper into loose sleeves of his ebony sweatshirt.

Dean is used to the rhythmic clicking of his house locking routine (John can't have someone breaking into the house, especially since he's out on his important hunt), and the two walk along the sidewalk, the younger of the two clinging to his older brother's arm despite his eager expression. In protection, he presses Sam closer to him.

There is no full moon like he had assumed there would be; all the stars are shielded by clouds, more dusty than misty, in all honesty. When Dean looks up, the sky whispers evil things to him. He looks back down.

"Dean, look—that house is giving out king-size candy bars!"

He snaps his attention back to the young boy, who is pointing enthusiastically towards a formal looking estate and other kids scrambling up and down the cobblestone pathway as if they are in an assembly line. All of a sudden, Deans finds his self-supervision breaking, and sprints with Sammy up the step, mossy eyes lighten up. It's Halloween, after all. He can barely remember the last time he went trick-or-treating, due to a vague memory of his pumpkin costume with his mother nine years ago. Frankly, seeing Sam so excited for a few pieces of candy is enough for his happiness any day.

Houses pass by for the next hour.

It happens abruptly in the middle of the another trick-or-treating cycle, which makes his mood snap more than normally. Sam stumbles as he's exiting the doorsteps, and his shoulder accidentally slams into another boy's—larger than Sam, definitely, nearly double the size and features that seems twice as big as Sam's as well. Muttering out a "sorry"_, _Sam's young form cowers slightly from the glare of the bigger boy, who the two brothers now recognize as their neighbor.

Dean didn't notice at first when the boy threw a punch at Sam, but his gaze soon shifted from the sky to them. He knows that being violent in return won't help anything. He doesn't care.

A sharp heat in his stomach travels up to his chest and his shoulders, down his arms and into his hand, where it stiffly tightens his fist and whips towards the stupid, stupid boy who dared even try to punch his brother. Dean's at least three years older than him but he keeps punching, and their neighbor is soon curled on the ground, palm clutched over his nose and Sam's yelling at him to stop but it sounds like he's underwater, so he pretends he can't hear, and a few splatters of blood hit the grass around them and Dean's knuckles are already split and they are the same color as the boy's skin right now: black and indigo and splotchy.

He faintly feels Sam's hand gripping his arm, making Dean stagger backwards a few steps. The boy is sprawled on the ground and he is definitely alive, according to moans, but something else is wrong.

It's silent.

Everyone is staring at him.

"I'm sorry," Dean manages to breathe out, because he feels he needs to, but a couple stray kids across the lawn stumble on their feet, soon darting away. His gaze flicks over the rest of the people; their eyes flash in fear and back away, and he can't help but think they're right to.

The slow-moving time's pace suddenly becomes normal again, a woman's scream piercing the air from behind them—it's the boy's mother, and unless Dean wants anymore attention drawn to him, he knows he should get out of the way. Sam squeezes his arm harder and Dean runs, avoiding the fact that other kids swiveled the other way once he approached them.

_I am not a monster, _he thinks, voice shaky even inside his head. _Monsters are bad. I hunt monsters. I kill monsters. I am not a monster._

_._

John Winchester doesn't show up for Dean's thirteenth birthday.

He doesn't mind too much, though—John may have promised to return to the hotel with an elaborately decorated cake in hand, but he was also on one of his more dangerous hunts in a while. "_A_ _wraith_," he had said, _"It's already killed four people. We just can't risk it." _Dean had forced a smile through pursed lips and nodded; of course, something like that is much more important than just a birthday.

"You're getting old," a nine year old Sam grins from beside him. The two are reclined against a musty alleyway wall in an abandoned street of Chicago, legs entwined together, and mugs of steaming packet-made hot cocoa folded into their palms. "You're already a teenager."

Dean breathes out an amused chuckle through his nose and tightens his chilly hands around the mug, instantly spreading a comforting heat around them. "Thirteen is barely a teenager."

"Yes it is. You'll probably be able to go with Dad on more hunts now," Sam states, matter-of-factly, and Dean once again inwardly swears at himself for telling him about John's job last year. He knows his younger brother has never been in favor of going along on hunts, but as a nine year old, Sam can't help but be curious about these things.

Dean just shrugs in response.

"Are you sad that he can't be here?"

He turns his head towards Sam at this and silently tells himself to raise the corner of his lips and smile, despite Sam always being able to see through them. "It's okay," he murmurs with a ruffle of Sam's hair. "I got you. And hot cocoa. This is a great birthday, I promise." Turning straight forward again, Dean swallows and smiles softly again to himself in his own reassurance. John certainly would've been here if he could, but no matter how many times he tells that to his head, a gaping pit is still left in the shallow of his stomach.

"Dean—" Sam breathes out and runs his hand over his older brother's shoulder in comfort, but Dean's expression remains motionless and bland. "I know that you feel like you don't deserve to be cared about."

With a surprised blink, Dean turns to face him—_how had he known that? He didn't even know that himself_.

"You're so important, Dean. Think of all the lives that have depended on you, and all of the lives you saved. Remember last week? You brought that little girl to safety when an angry ghost was in her house. You saved her, you did something great."

Dean processes this, covering up his slight blush by sinking down against the wall and taking another sip of hot cocoa. "No," he protests. "Dad could have done that too. He can do anything."

"No, he can't. He can't be here on your special day."

"Do. ." Dean's voice trails off and he swallows back a break in it, "do you really think that? I'm not much. I can shoot a gun and that's about it."

"You going to save the world one day, Dean."

Sam's voice is young and innocent, but Dean has never heard something so kind in a way that he wasn't saying it to be praised. Dean shoves his hands over his eyes, avoiding eye contact, and feels a tiny bead of salty tears against the palms of his fingertips; inhaling deeply, and determined not to cry over just being complimented, he shoves himself to a stand after steadying Sam by the shoulder and setting down his near empty mug.

At first, he doesn't have a certain task in mind, but he soon dashes down the alleyway and into a bustling city street, glancing forward towards the figures scurrying in a hurry and looking like impressionist paintings against the sunset heavy with blurred linings in back. He takes a stranger's face in his hands and whispers almost forcefully towards them, "You're important," and does the same to each person passing by on the Chicago sidewalk.

_"You're important."_

.

_They need to hear it, _he thinks. _They may not be directly saving the world, but without them, there would be no world._

Dean, with blooms of orchids inside him, smiles.


End file.
